I'm Not That Girl
by Stephane Richer
Summary: Don't wish; don't start. Wishing only wounds the heart...


I'm Not That Girl

Disclaimer: I do not own J. R. R. Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings_ books, nor Idina Menzel's recording of "I'm Not That Girl".

If she had lead five thousand other lives on five thousand other Middle-Earths, then perhaps one would not contain _her_. And that one would be worth all four thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine times. Hell, if she was reborn five thousand times -

Elves never died, though. They never had to, and killing her would just drive him further away. And it wouldn't be right. How could she even think of doing something like that? Was she no better than some cruel dark lord or orc who solved everything with the quick and dirty sweeping or shooting or throwing of a weapon? Well, no, she knew that already. It was all too easy to just fight, to hand out cruel retribution. And, after all, _she _had been there first, had known him first and longest.

Five thousand human lifetimes was still not long enough, would never be so. She doubted even that ten thousand would be. And it stood to reason that humans only got one life, for with all the death and slaughter of the long and brutal war, she did not see any familiar faces among the young children. No one spoke with the persona of her uncle; no one seemed to be any of the fellow soldiers she'd known and lost. There was only one life, and one man to whom she would devote herself.

And yet, the only reason she had met him at all had turned out to be his ridiculous devotion to another. How very fitting, indeed.

Seeing him giving that look of pure adoration, seeing that look reciprocated, by _her_, felt like five thousand witch-kings, no, worse. It cut so deeply that she wondered sometimes if by healing her he had not poisoned her. But death would continue to slip through her fingers like smoke in the wind, evading her desperate and cowardly hands as they trembled. The more she tried to escape life, the further the knife twisted and the worse she felt. She hated him, no, could never hate him, hated her, hated herself for loving him so desperately and deeply.

But he needed serene, adept, forgiving, wise, beautiful (for even her own brother was in unabashed awe over that - the cold knife twisted deeper inside (was it in negative space? Shouldn't it have gone through her, impaling her completely by now and finishing her off?)), everything she herself was not and could never be.

There was no use worrying about technicalities that she could not change for the better. The best she could do was to not think about it. She tried very hard to avoid both of them, though of course she could not be completely successful. The less she saw them the easier it was to think about other things. Oh, not that it was still not very hard not to wonder where they were (no doubt alone together somewhere), what they were doing ("one another," a voice in her head whispered ever so spitefully) and all the affection between them - but with time it grew easier. She thought of home, of fighting, of her brother and her friends.

What was the phrase again? Time is the healer? Nothing is not healed with time? Time is the best medicine? Time heals all? Time fixes everything? Time certainly helped, adding thick scar tissue over her (still) raw thoughts. The pain gradually lessened, and soon it was not hard to confuse it with the aches and pains of her daily life and other old wounds. Her body moved on; her heart dug in its feet and refused and she simply could not rationalize with it.

Still, she came to the realization one day as she was eating breakfast. Her fork clattered to the table and her eyes widened. From the beginning, he was right. Of course he was. This was never about him; it was about proving herself. It was just her being self-centered again. She had loved the idea of him, not him, just a thought. Hastily, she picked the utensil back up and shoveled food into her mouth, cheeks burning with fury and embarrassment. She had been so self-righteous and so hung up on him, when really he had been right - she was an ignorant child and nothing more. And here she was, acting that way again.

And yet, she came to another realization later that day when she saw them sneak away for some time alone. She really did not care all that much anymore. The stabbing and twisting came back, but more out of habit than anything else. Her body and mind had pulled her heart along, letting it believe it got what it wanted (what a masochist her heart was!).

For once, she'd accomplished something on her own (granted, "fall out of a hopeless crush" was not really all that much), something she had tried for. The emptiness in her heart was replaced with satisfaction (and that Faramir was giving her a flirty glance from across the table, wasn't he?). It was, she thought, indeed a good time to be alive. After all, for all she knew she could only have one and from now on she was going to live it right. If she had lived five thousand other lives on five thousand other Middle-Earths, perhaps in one of them she could be with him, could get to know him and learn to love him for real. And perhaps that time, she would not. She might spurn him for some other choice, but perhaps she would stay with him and be his. She really didn't care. That other self could have that other him, and that would work out just fine for them, but not for her. Not in this life.


End file.
